Heart in his mouth, thumb hooked close to the butt of his pistol, West stepped quickly across the threshold of the lock.
A man, clad in motheaten underwear, sat on the edge of the cot. His hair was long and untrimmed, his whiskers sprouted in black ferocity. From the mat of beard two eyes stared out, like animals brought to bay in caves. A bony hand thrust out a whisky bottle in a gesture of invitation.
The whiskers moved and a croak came from them. "Have a snort," it said.
West shook his head. "I don't drink."
"I do," the whiskers said. The hand tilted the bottle and the bottle gurgled.
West glanced swiftly around the room. No radio. That made it simpler. If there had been a radio he would have had to smash it. For, he realized now, it had been a silly thing to do, stopping on this moon. No one knew where he was ... and that was the way it should have stood.
West snapped his visor up.
"Drinking myself to death," the whiskers told him.
West stared, astounded at the utter poverty, at the absolute squalor of the place.
"Three years," said the man. "Not a single sober breath in three solid years." He hiccoughed. "Getting me," he said. His left hand came up and thumped his shrunken chest. Lint flew from the ragged underwear. The right hand still clutched the bottle.